


A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by inusagi



Series: Werewolves of London [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Also Eggsy has a head injury and is a bit slow. bless him, Blood and Gore, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kingsman is more than an agency. It's a pack.<br/>And before you can join...well, limits must be tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [futuredescending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/gifts).



> Hi! I'm sorry this is so late. I'm trash, and this one fought back. 
> 
> And because I'm trash, this is a toned-down version of what I'd had planned...But I really like the concept, so I plan to continue it. I may or may not have some very effed up plans for this au. (Okay, I do.) Either way, this can be read as a stand alone.
> 
> I also kept the gore to kind of a minimum. I don't know how like...happy you are or aren't with graphic depictions of violence, futuredescending, and I didn't want to traumatize you with something that's meant to be a gift.

"There are wolves, Eggsy, and then there are sheep."

Harry Hart, looking hardly worse for the wear after catching a bullet with his face under the hot Kentucky sun, was in full lecture mode as he folded his pyjamas. He was being released from hospital today, and Eggsy had come by to help.

And by help, he meant bitch about how Bors and Kay were stuck up fucking tossers.

Eggsy popped a grape into his mouth. "Bit harsh, innit?"

"I think you misunderstand." It was said in the tone—the patient schoolmaster tone that somehow mocked and aroused him in equal measure—that always made him want to show off, to be _full of surprises._

"No, I get it. Sheep are a metaphor for the idiot masses mindlessly followin' whatever pop culture orders  'em to. I ain't stupid, Harry. I know about metaphors and all dat rubbish."

Harry smirked. "I've no doubt you do. And while that's an...apt comparison, particularly after the issue with Valentine's nasty free SIM cards, I'm not speaking in the abstract."

"What are you on about?"

“You’ll see,” he replied, calmly latching his small suitcase.

But what he _didn’t_ see was the suitcase being swung at his head, knocking Eggsy out cold.

) O (

The first thing he noticed when he came to was that his head hurt like a motherfucker.

The second was that he was outside. The earth was soft beneath him, on just this side of muddy, and he had to sit up so that he could resist the seductive pull of unconsciousness that threatened to take him again.

Relying on his training, Eggsy struggled to focus enough to take stock of his surroundings.

He was in a cage. It didn’t have a top, which was bizarre—like it was more about keeping something _out_ than keeping him in—but why would anyone bother putting him in a trap he could escape?

The cage was in the middle of a clearing, which itself was fenced in by more than just trees. Moonlight—shining through the trees, so low in the sky that morning must be inching ever closer—twinkled along the dewdrop-covered grass like fairies dancing in the meadow.

The pain-fuelled fog slowly cleared from Eggsy’s head, leaving only a dull throb in his temples, and he realized that he wasn’t alone in the clearing. Three pale figures huddled together near the gate, starkers and panicked.

He recognized one of them—Jim Pritchard. He’d captured Pritchard himself a fortnight ago, smuggling assault rifles into Bristol, of all places. He’d definitely had clothes on then, though.

He felt like was putting together a puzzle with pieces missing. He couldn’t make sense of it at all, honestly, and had only just convinced himself that he wasn’t having some freaky dream when the dogs arrived.

Eggsy’s mind unhelpfully provided the word _wolves_ , but he refused to take that final step into Nightmare Land—There weren’t any wolves in the UK, hadn’t been for ages. They had to be just dogs.

Really big, wolfish-looking dogs.

Who were obviously in some sort of dog _pack_.

And seemed to be chasing the other three humans in the enclosure. Well, not so much chasing as...

Hunting.

Eggsy wasn’t sure he wanted to be out of his cage anymore.

It wasn’t exactly a fair race. There were dozen or so _not-wolves_ —as far as Eggsy could tell...they were moving around far too much to count properly—and only three slow humans. They didn’t stand a chance.

The woman screamed when two of the beasts took her down, and the shrill sound turned abruptly into a sickening gurgle when a third ripped her throat out. By the time he ripped his eyes away from the sight, one of the men—frankly unrecognizable—was already on the ground—surrounded, ravaged. Three _canines—_ okay, no, those were bloody wolves—three of the wolves were practically playing tug-o-war with his intestines.

The only remaining man—fucking Pritchard—was being toyed with. To Eggsy, it looked almost like he was being _herded_ by the two largest wolves—one a rich, chocolate brown and the other russet. They nipped at his heels, his sides until he was running headlong into Eggsy’s cage, then mysteriously fell back.

Waiting.

Watching.

Pritchard rattled frantically at the cage door—“ _Lemmeinlemmeinlemmein_.”—and Eggsy realized, rather stupidly, that the latch was on the _inside_ of the cage.

He could let Pritchard, save him from the big, bad wolves like the heroic woodsman in Daisy’s bloody nursery stories—and guess which ones he’d never be reading to her again?

All he had to do was turn the latch. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around the metal, and glanced at the wolves—snarling, deadly—and at Pritchard.

Pritchard, who was ready and willing to sell guns to a bloke planning to shoot up a primary school. Pritchard, who put deadly weapons into the hands of drug dealers, gangsters and low-level thugs up and down the county. Pritchard, who Eggsy was perfectly happy to think of as being locked away in some dirty prison cell for the rest of his days.

Eggsy let go of the latch and took a big step backwards. The bars press into his back and Pritchard’s shrieked “ _Lemme in, you_ fucking psycho!” presses in on his chest, crushing him with the weight of his own choices.

The wolves advance and Eggsy forces himself not to look away until the sun rises and the pool of Pritchard’s blood starts to congeal around his bare feet.

There’s not much of Pritchard left by that point—the brown one looked to have eaten his bloody _lungs_. Jesus fuck.—so he didn’t feel too guilty about closing his eyes against the first harsh rays of sunlight peeking through the trees. He would’ve slept—should have, come to that. He’d had a head trauma. And a mental one. He deserved a kip—had Harry’s proud voice not cut through his rest.

“Bloody well done.”

He expected to see Harry in front of his cage, of course. Kingsman and their fucked up tests. But he’d rather expected to see Harry as he’d been in the tunnel, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle on that crisp pea coat.

This...was not that Harry.

The Harry who stood before him, with the steel bars of the cage safely between them, was fucking wild. He was starkers, for a start—which Eggsy was resolutely ignoring, no matter how very much he was tempted to look—and absolutely _covered_ in blood. His face was practically dripping with it, even now as it thickened on the ground, and a thick layer coated his chest, down the soft, flat expanse of his belly, and even crept into the thatch of pubic hair.

Eggsy forced his eyes upwards again, to Harry’s mad, handsome face. His smile, glistening white teeth almost iridescent against the dark, smeared blood around his lips, tugged at Eggsy’s heartstrings even while his mind screamed horror.

“There are wolves, Eggsy,” Harry says, “and then there are sheep. But sometimes, very rarely, there are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Just as I knew you’d be.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Better stay away from him. He'll rip your lungs out, Jim.
> 
> [](http://statcounter.com/shopify/)


End file.
